Bird Song

The old man wakes with the sun, trying to pull its frail warmth into his fragile bones.
His food is left, as always, in the hatch in his door. Porridge. Water. Simple. Nourishing. He ignores it.
The bird sleeps in its cage, feathers fluffed, head under wing. He lifts the bird from its nest, winds its hidden key. The bird wakes. Perched on his shoulder, it sings.
It is beautiful.
The bird doesn't know his crime. He hardly remembers it himself.
The sun sets. Winding down, the bird sleeps.
One day, the man will not wake.
They will sleep forever.